your
name?”
“L-Logan
Woods,” I barely managed to get out. God, it hurt to talk. Speaking
required more air then I was willing to take in—as if holding
absolutely still could somehow dull the pain. But even the
shallowest of breaths ignited a searing like I’d never experienced
before.
“Okay, Logan,
it will be hard, but you have to resist…”
How many times
did that blade drive into my chest? I felt defenceless and
smothered as a child with that cruel sibling who refuses to listen
when they beg for the tickling to stop. There was no mercy. No
escape. No air.
My body
couldn’t handle all the foreign objects he’d forced on me. His
touch lingered like fresh burns, and all that was left of me were
the slow dying embers.
I always
imagined I’d burn out old and in the comfort of my bed. Preferably
with a lover by my side; during sleep so I’d never see it coming. I
wouldn’t know to be scared.
Turns out I got
a field of broken concrete surrounded by a mural of graffiti.
“Did you catch
that?”
…And this
compassionate stranger.
For a moment I
wanted to pretend that he meant something to me. That we’d met
somewhere else and memorized every detail about one another—like
how he was colour-blind and ambidextrous. How he hated coffee but
drank it anyways for the caffeine kick. How he preferred romantic
comedies over action, and how he was crap at drawing but borderline
genius when it came to numbers. …How he wouldn’t be ashamed to hold
my hand in public or place a kiss on my cheek. How he’d have a
thing for those old photo booths and saved every last print, even
if they turned out horribly. He’d write bad poetry and slip it into
my pocket when I wasn’t looking and we’d stay on the phone all
night until we both fell asleep. I craved to burry myself in the
crook of his neck and take in that tranquil scent straight from its
host.
This was
foolish. And more than a little desperate. Pathetic even.
He didn’t have
a name and I never got a good look at him.
But I could
just tell he was attractive.
Everything
about him was.
I willed the
energy to open my eyes and focus on him until the image stopped
swimming.
…I was
right.
He was
gorgeous.
“Good! You’re
doing good. Logan, listen, this is really important. You have to
stay awake, all right?”
He made it
sound easy. The lure of sleep was as strong as that extra nine
minutes after the morning alarm goes off.
I nearly
drifted off then and quickly nodded so he wouldn’t catch it.
I had to stay
focused.
I had to stay
awake.
“You are doing
great, Logan. Don’t give up,” he repeated while fixing my bangs,
somehow able to tell I needed the encouragement.
I still slipped
in-and-out in spite of it; and the difference between past and
present became foggier and foggier. How long had it been since I
was taken? What time was it anyways?
The apartment
had been unlocked when I returned. It was stupid to wave that
detail off and assume I’d been forgetful, though I truly believed a
robbery was the worst thing that could have happened.
Yet my
instincts told me something was wrong. And it was. A light was on
in my room, the desk slightly rearranged, some dresser drawers
open. It wasn’t much; but I distinctly remembered keeping things in
order before heading out.
Still, I
doubted myself.
Like many
children, I used to be scared of a monster that lived in my closet.
It would keep me up all night without doing a single thing. It
never showed itself –never made a sound– yet I still firmly
believed in it and all its malice.
But then I
started to believe that if monsters did exist… why would one live
in my room of all places? Why my closet? Why would it care about me
at all? There were so many people in the world and I was just one
small kid among millions. Just one small existence. No one would
notice me.
I simply wasn’t
that special.
And so I got
over that fear.
That got me
over fear in general.
They say fear
is what keeps
name?”
“L-Logan
Woods,” I barely managed to get out. God, it hurt to talk. Speaking
required more air then I was willing to take in—as if holding
absolutely still could somehow dull the pain. But even the
shallowest of breaths ignited a searing like I’d never experienced
before.
“Okay, Logan,
it will be hard, but you have to resist…”
How many times
did that blade drive into my chest? I felt defenceless and
smothered as a child with that cruel sibling who refuses to listen
when they beg for the tickling to stop. There was no mercy. No
escape. No air.
My body
couldn’t handle all the foreign objects he’d forced on me. His
touch lingered like fresh burns, and all that was left of me were
the slow dying embers.
I always
imagined I’d burn out old and in the comfort of my bed. Preferably
with a lover by my side; during sleep so I’d never see it coming. I
wouldn’t know to be scared.
Turns out I got
a field of broken concrete surrounded by a mural of graffiti.
“Did you catch
that?”
…And this
compassionate stranger.
For a moment I
wanted to pretend that he meant something to me. That we’d met
somewhere else and memorized every detail about one another—like
how he was colour-blind and ambidextrous. How he hated coffee but
drank it anyways for the caffeine kick. How he preferred romantic
comedies over action, and how he was crap at drawing but borderline
genius when it came to numbers. …How he wouldn’t be ashamed to hold
my hand in public or place a kiss on my cheek. How he’d have a
thing for those old photo booths and saved every last print, even
if they turned out horribly. He’d write bad poetry and slip it into
my pocket when I wasn’t looking and we’d stay on the phone all
night until we both fell asleep. I craved to burry myself in the
crook of his neck and take in that tranquil scent straight from its
host.
This was
foolish. And more than a little desperate. Pathetic even.
He didn’t have
a name and I never got a good look at him.
But I could
just tell he was attractive.
Everything
about him was.
I willed the
energy to open my eyes and focus on him until the image stopped
swimming.
…I was
right.
He was
gorgeous.
“Good! You’re
doing good. Logan, listen, this is really important. You have to
stay awake, all right?”
He made it
sound easy. The lure of sleep was as strong as that extra nine
minutes after the morning alarm goes off.
I nearly
drifted off then and quickly nodded so he wouldn’t catch it.
I had to stay
focused.
I had to stay
awake.
“You are doing
great, Logan. Don’t give up,” he repeated while fixing my bangs,
somehow able to tell I needed the encouragement.
I still slipped
in-and-out in spite of it; and the difference between past and
present became foggier and foggier. How long had it been since I
was taken? What time was it anyways?
The apartment
had been unlocked when I returned. It was stupid to wave that
detail off and assume I’d been forgetful, though I truly believed a
robbery was the worst thing that could have happened.
Yet my
instincts told me something was wrong. And it was. A light was on
in my room, the desk slightly rearranged, some dresser drawers
open. It wasn’t much; but I distinctly remembered keeping things in
order before heading out.
Still, I
doubted myself.
Like many
children, I used to be scared of a monster that lived in my closet.
It would keep me up all night without doing a single thing. It
never showed itself –never made a sound– yet I still firmly
believed in it and all its malice.
But then I
started to believe that if monsters did exist… why would one live
in my room of all places? Why my closet? Why would it care about me
at all? There were so many people in the world and I was just one
small kid among millions. Just one small existence. No one would
notice me.
I simply wasn’t
that special.
And so I got
over that fear.
That got me
over fear in general.
They say fear
is what keeps
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